Becoming CS
by Autumn810
Summary: The story of Cloud Strife's struggle to become who he was meant to be


_Becoming Cloud Strife_

Soft blue eyes carefully scanned over the wild crowd of children, watching the odd creatures people had called his 'friends' at some points in his life. These 'friends' had always run off to play their own games and start their own mock wars. It wasn't that they purposely left him out. No, the children weren't that mean- not yet, anyway. He just preferred to be on his own.

Their squeals and giggles sharply contrasted his insightful nature like a black dot on a pure white sheet of paper. He liked watching and they liked playing. It wasn't a problem, really. That's just the way it always was. Occasionally, at the very beginning, they would offer him a chance to join a conversation. He always gave them that slight shake of the head that made his golden spikes bounce in unison. They would shrug it off and pretend he didn't exist just like he wanted them to.

But, like any introvert, there were times when he wished he could just forget his personality and say yes. Not nod, but _actually_ use his soft, young voice. He wished that they would _force_ him to join, push him into it, mock him, _anything_ to at least make him feel more important than the nudge in those children's minds that made them feel guilty if they didn't at least ask him. They always knew the answer, and so they had stopped asking. They had rejected the guilty feeling altogether and forgotten during their childish games. They had forgotten him.

He didn't care, really. Every once in a while, one of them would look at him wistfully from afar, wondering innocently why he wouldn't leave that bench. And if the teacher was on the bench, he would sit on the wooden border to the old playground outside of the rotting schoolhouse. She worried too much about him, and it made the young boy feel smothered. And so he would watch, not feeling anything as they shot each other down in their little games.

By the time he was out of third grade, he knew he wanted to have a friend. He'd seen that large group of kids split into their own little cliques and grow to have rivalries between each other. Still trivial fights, but fights nevertheless. He was an outsider, but even at the age of eight, he was used to that. He was used to seeing their wars get harder fought and more strategized than before, though they really weren't really being all that organized compared to the tidbits of information that his dad had given on his brief breaks back to the small community of Nibelheim.

The kids had learned by then that they had power over their smaller classmate. They'd make fun of how his hair stood up no matter what he did, they mocked his height, and they snickered at how he was the slowest runner in gym. Even the rather plump boy named Tommy Barnes could outrun him without breaking a sweat. But he wasn't bothered. He was being forced into that attention that he'd wanted two years ago. He'd wished for it, and that meant he'd done something to earn it, right? Isn't that what the girls had said when he heard them whispering in the back of the room.

It was in fourth grade that the beautiful girl named Tifa Lockhart had joined their little class. She had shuffled into the room quietly, sliding into the only empty desk in the back of room. Her name was scribbled onto a piece of dirty masking tape and stuck to the top right corner where the wood had split and chipped and a rusty screw was poking out just the slightest bit. Her seat was right between his and one of the more (if kids were even considered this that early on) popular girls in the class named Claire.

Miss Turner had stopped writing on the chalkboard to get a look at her new student, a half written cursive 'G' scrawled in a sickly shade of yellow behind her. She smiled sweetly and brushed the chalk dust off her fingertips before clasping her hands together and explaining that Tifa had been homeschooled all the way until now. She told them that they needed to welcome her and help her catch up if she didn't understand something from last year. Tifa had blossomed into the class's most popular member. Not only was her family's fortune enticing with the companion of her overly generous nature, but with those burgundy eyes and shining dark hair, many students caught themselves staring a little longer than necessary.

He was no exception to this. Even at nine, he was completely smitten with her. The only problem? There _wasn't_ an only problem. There were too many to count. He was only the kid that sat alone at lunch, never daring to open his mouth and protest when Tommy or Jacob would get a little rough with the teasing. Because he wouldn't ever say anything, he was considered the 'stupid kid' out of all of them. So what if he only shrugged when the teacher called on him? Maybe he just didn't _want_ to answer. Did they ever consider what he was thinking? Of course not. He couldn't even say 'Hello' to Jill, and _she_ was the closest thing to an outcast compared to him.

The day he and his mother received the news was a hard one. He'd gone to school that day, as always. He'd listened to Miss Turner when she told them to get into groups for a lab day, but she'd given him detention anyway. He'd gotten into a group all by himself; what was the harm? Tifa and her friends had played that silly game 'House' again where they convinced Tommy Barnes to be the dad and Tifa to be the mom. During their 'dinner', Tifa had told Tommy to get his elbows off the Table to set a good example for the children (Claire, Martha, and Karen; Jill was the pet fish) and he had kicked over their toys in frustration. Tifa had chased after him and gave him a good strong smack across the face. No one said anything to the teacher upon Tommy's orders.

And then he had gone home with his nearly empty backpack because Jack had beaten him up again and stolen all his supplies. "It's called mugging," his enemy had explained before he ran off. When he got home, his mother fussed over him and insisted that they talk to his teacher. He persistently shook his head until she gave up and left to make dinner. Someone rang the doorbell a few hours later; he ignored it. He was working on his math homework, and really, who had time for the mailman when they were working on a particularly long division problem?

At exactly six o'clock, roughly ten minutes after the doorbell had rung, he routinely put his papers and pencils in a neat stack and went downstairs for dinner. But this time was different. Mother was in a chair in the living room, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. His heart had skipped at least a dozen beats when he saw the folded paper on the end table beside her. This couldn't mean what he thought it did. He reached for the slip, confused when his mother didn't stop him, and read the page carefully. He was silent for a moment after he had finished.

It was a lie. _He_ would be the _last_ person to fall in battle. He couldn't be dead. This was a trick Tommy was playing, right? But the doorbell... Neither of them spoke for a while until his mother got up and locked herself in her room for the rest of the evening. A half washed stack of dishes still rested on the rack on the counter, a head of lettuce that had been shredded laid to the side. He quietly walked to the kitchen and switched the crockpot off. Then he headed up to his room and stared at the ceiling until an uncontrollable sleepiness fell over him and he closed his eyes. Images of guns and swords crossing, visions of blood flowing, and scenes of people he knew falling to the ground, eyes wide open but empty disturbed his sleep that night. An incomplete paper labeled "Long Division Practice Problems" laid on the desk across the room. He didn't care about that problem anymore.

His father was dead.

He went to school the next day and pretended nothing had happened. He didn't turn in his homework, he didn't eat lunch, he didn't watch Tifa and her friends play 'House'. He stared into the empty space before him, trying to imagine how his father had gone. Was it fast and painless? Or had Wutai taken advantage of the opportunity to mess with a member of SOLDIER? Was he alive somewhere, wounded, but hidden safely and waiting for help like his son had seen in movies? Nobody had noticed his behavior, not even Miss Turner. It just seemed so normal for a kid like him to be quiet and mind his own business. He'd had missing assignments before, and this time didn't seem any different.

But just because it wasn't obvious, didn't mean it wasn't there. He was angry. No, he was _seething_ inside. He was mad that his father had died. He was mad at the bullies for the nasty glares they sent him in the classroom. He was mad at Tifa and her friends for being able to laugh and smile. Why couldn't they understand? He wasn't afraid. He was frustrated with their childish war games. Every time a boy hit the dirt and got back up again, his fists clenched a little tighter. That wasn't how it worked. Once you fell, you didn't get up again. You laid there in the ground while those you loved mourned their loss. Then, months later, they might have even forgotten about you. But you couldn't do a think because you were dead and gone, buried under six feet of dirt at the base of a stone with your epitaph scratched in it.

The seventh time Jake clambered back onto his feet, he had had enough. Angrily standing, he charged forward, stomping past the giggling girls and the rough housing boys to approach his bully. Jake sneered down at him, arms crossed. "What's wrong, Shrimp? Wanna play?" Before any of Jake's friends could stop him, he had raised one of his balled up fists and shot it toward the bully's face. When his small hand collided with Jake's head, he opened his mouth to shout the first thing anyone at the school had ever heard him say.

" _That's not how it goes_!" His classmates stood there in silence, watching Jake hold his bloody nose in shocked silence. "You don't ever get up again! You die!"

With that, he stormed back to his place on the little wooden bench and crossed his little arms tightly. The pout on his face was only directed toward his lap, and he was still too angry to care about what he had done. Luckily for him, the other kids were too scared to tell the teacher about his violent actions and Miss Turner had had her back turned to another teacher anyway. Even Jake kept his mouth shut and simply shrugged uncharacteristically when Miss Turner asked what had happened.

On the way home, he was stopped by Tifa, who ran after him as fast as she possibly could until she stopped at his side, panting. She had asked if he was alright, and when he nodded, she told him that she was glad that he wasn't as mean as he looked. He had shrugged and walked ahead, entering his home and locking the door behind him. Tifa didn't really care, and neither did anyone else. Why should he care for them at all?

Two years later, he heard about Sephiroth. The war hero was a big hit throughout the town, and all of the boys in Nibelheim practically worshipped him. That was when he decided to join SOLDIER. He left the house early in the mornings and ran all the way to the mountain before looping back and running out of the city to the welcome sign. Finally, he would turn back and go home. He would do all he could think of to train. While the kids next door were still playing their stupid games at Tifa's house, he would be doing as many pushups as he could possibly manage. His record was twenty five in a minute, not even close to enough.

He no longer yearned for their attention. All of his focus was on the Shinra's mako-injected army. School always came second to his preparations. No, that was all a lie. Deep down, he still wanted into their group. He still studied at least five minutes a day. He would stand outside of the Lockhart house and look up into the second floor's middle window, where he could see Tifa giggling with those three stupid children. Stupid Tommy Barnes, stupid Claire, and stupid Johnny, the new kid in their sixth grade class. Stupid Johnny and his stupid red hair that Tifa liked to play with. He would never admit that it made him jealous.

When Tifa's mother died in eighth grade, he tried not to care. It wasn't the same as losing his father. No, his father had done something good with his life and died for the protection of the people. What had Mrs. Lockhart done? Probably waltzed around her extravagant home and bossed everyone around. He stopped his thoughts in their tracks and mentally scolded himself. It was becoming evident how bitter he'd become. But did it really matter anymore? It wasn't like they could read his mind, and they probably didn't care anyway.

He'd followed when he saw all three of them running toward the mountains. Tifa had stubbornly insisted that her mother was across them somewhere. She had to be, right? Where else would she go? He had watched as her 'friends' chickened out and left her to cross the range herself. Hesitant and not wanting her to cross alone, he started after her. What if his father was there with her mother? No, that was a childish thing to think. A kid's dream. He knew the truth, and he knew Tifa did too, but if she wanted to pretend I didn't exist, he was all for joining her. Maybe she would at least pay _some_ attention to him.

They'd trekked up the rugged mountain path in silence, an occasional sniffle from Tifa disturbing the quiet. When they got to the bridge, she turned to look at him. The first wooden plank creaked under her shoe. "Thank you for coming with me. I guess the others got too scared."

He had simply nodded and followed her lead. The bridge continued to groan and protest, but that's what all wood was supposed to do... Right? Suddenly, the rope on the other end of the bridge snapped on both sides, and at the same time the planks under their feet crumbled to mere bits of nothingness. Tifa's screams were lost in the wind that shot up into their faces. His heart was hammering violently against his ribs, his breath was caught in his throat, his body was petrified with terror... And then they hit the ground.

Rather, _Tifa_ hit the ground. He landed on top of her with a sharp cry of pain, expecting death to come in a flash f white. But nothing came but a miniscule throbbing in his arm. He rolled off of her quickly, starting to mumble a quick apology. Then he froze. A puddle of crimson was spreading slowly around her head, her knee was bent at a bizarre angle, and her long brunette hair was fanned out around her. She was growing pale rapidly. In a panic, he took the deepest breath he could and yelled as loud as he'd ever yelled. It was a long, desperate cry for help, even if no words were spoken. He did it once more before his head was light. Then he decided to stop, just in case someone had heard him. Passing out would do no good.

The dull throbbing in his arm had turned into a terrible ache, but he still stumbled over to Tifa and tried to sit her up. Maybe that would help with the bleeding. Or maybe not. Maybe she would die and it would be all his fault. Maybe they would _both_ die. Would his mother, who had become so distant after his father passed, mourn for him? Would she go to his room and talk to him still, even if he wasn't there physically? Or would she pretend he never existed and carry on with her life? That would be the reaction most everyone would have, right?

He was mad at himself. No, anger didn't even begin to describe it. It was deep-seated hatred. It was self-loathing that had sunk its teeth into his flesh long ago. It was the anguish of knowing that he'd let another person slip past his walls without protecting them. He'd let her lead like a meat shield in the face of danger. He was a coward. He was worthless. Why couldn't he have been the one shot in battle, the one who was landed on in their plummet to the ground?

Far off, there was a sound. More of an echo, actually. He sat up straighter and held his breath, hoping for the sound to come again. His heart was pounding in his ears, each thud making his nerves spike. Was he hearing things? No, there it was again. A shout calling back to his in the distance. He yelled back as loudly as he could, warm blood trickling over the arms that held Tifa. They'd almost been saved. Would the townspeople thank him? Would he be allowed into that group of friends at last? Only for Tifa, of course; he didn't care about the others and their silly demeanors.

The voice called back, right above him. "Tifa?!" It was a man. _Tifa? I'm not... Oh, right, of course they'd be looking for her. Maybe they'll look for me after all this- if she's survives. I don't think I'll get lost again though..._ "Tifa?! You there! Boy! Tell me what happened!" He could see the dark shape of two men making their way down the mountain. But things didn't go as planned. They yelled at him, snatched Tifa away, and left him in the deep, dark valley. They didn't even notice his broken arm or his swollen ankle.

Who cared about him anyway?

It was when he was fifteen that he gained the courage to face her again. But it wasn't in a casual conversation, a date, or anything like that. He was ready to tell her that he was leaving. That he was ready to get out of this town, this _prison_ that had been a living Hell to him for fifteen years. And so he left her a note telling her to meet him at the town well at midnight.

He wasn't even sure that she would come. Yet there she was, in a light blue dress with her legs crossed over the edge of the tall structure. He'd sneaked up from behind and started talking quietly. It was easier than he thought it was going to be. They talked about SOLDIER and Sephiroth and the Shinra. He promised that he would make it into the newspapers. She promised to look out for them. Then she made him promise to save her when she was in another dilemma, like a true hero. He was silent a moment, wondering if he really _could_ do that. Finally, he nodded. "Alright. I promise." Would he make the cut? He would have to now.

The months of training in Midgar were hard. It was made even harder when those first classers Genesis and Angeal vanished. There was that other soldier named Zack. They'd become friends fairly quickly. It was strange, to him, for someone that wasn't his mother to care about him. To want his companionship regardless of whether or not he made it into SOLDIER. To help him figure out new techniques even when he wasn't strong enough. When Sephiroth betrayed them... _his_ hero was gone. All he had dreamt to be, all he had aspired for, just _gone_. And then Shinra turned, and they _stole_ his only friend. His only hope. His practical _brother_.

Saving her was more natural than he thought it would be. He'd fallen to her side and carried her out of harm's way before charging after Sephiroth n Mount Nibel's reactor. When that katana sliced through him like butter, it was the most excruciating thing he'd ever felt. His father's face, his mother burning alive, and Tifa's collapsed body under the crumbled bridge. His promise to never let someone die like that again. His promise to protect them, no matter the cost. It didn't matter if he was in SOLDIER or not, they were depending on him. He found the strength to lift his enemy by his own blade and throw him into the depths of the reactor. He'd collapsed then, exhausted and bleeding out. Someone else would have to save her...

He was tossed into the sea of unknown. Which way was up, and which way was down? It hurt to try to remember. It hurt to try thinking about the past. It wouldn't come to him. Where was that empty feeling coming from? Why did it always have to _hurt_ _so bad_? Avalanche... the mismatched clown crew of warriors he'd gathered... _They_ could all remember. _They_ could share stories, funny or sad. _They_ had something to fight for. _They_ had their reasons for chasing Sephiroth. He didn't. He couldn't remember any stories, he couldn't fight for anything but himself, he was just being dragged to the maniac he'd once admired by an invisible force.

And then there was clarity. He could see again. He hadn't made it into SOLDIER. He hadn't been Tifa's childhood friend. There as never a time that he was a leader until now. But he didn't _care_. They'd saved the Planet and he'd saved himself. He could still remember the pain of Zack's death. He could still feel the betrayal inside that burned him alongside the flames in Nibelheim. He could still remember the feeling of being an outcast. But now he wasn't alone. He had his family of rag-tag-clown-show-mismatched-warriors, and that was good enough for now. He'd found himself.

He had finally become Cloud Strife.


End file.
